


Ain't No Sunshine

by brilliantlyordinary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, John controls the weather, Pre-Reichenbach, Unfinished, apparently i can only write short things, feel free to be harsh with comments, ill try harder next time, it doesn't have an ending, its sad okay, just ignore me, really sad, sorry - Freeform, sorry this took me waaay long to type up, the style changes halfway through shhh, weather-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantlyordinary/pseuds/brilliantlyordinary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John controls the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Sunshine

He supposed he must have always had it, but he never really noticed it until Afghanistan. 

The first time was subtle. 

He had recently graduated, a definite cause for celebration.

He was out drinking with some mates from uni when he was pulled to the side by the restaurant manager for an urgent phone call.

It was a doctor. So obvious, but, he supposed, with no small amount of pride, takes one to know one.

They were quiet, soft spoken, voice sympathetic but not sad, not wrecked.

“Too late,” he said.

“Freak accident,” he said.

“Too much blood loss,” he said.

“We did our best.”

His parents.

Dead.

***  
It rained for six months. 

John only noticed so far as to acknowledge the weather’s perfect reflection of his grief.

***  
The second time was much more obvious.

The first day he killed a man. He was frozen, watching as the man's dark eyes grew wide, and stared down at the hole in his chest. Red was seeping across his shirt and he looked back up at John, surprised, before toppling over backwards, eyes gone blank and absent. 

The sudden crack of thunder and flood of darkness over John's head shocked him from his frozen stare and he tipped his face back to the sky, letting the sudden flood of rain cover the tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes. 

His team called him back, rushing him away from the rain and leaving him to his silence. 

Rain was rare in the desert.

Rare enough to make him question.

***  
When John had bad days, it rained, it stormed, it monsooned, it hurricaned. 

When John was happy the sun would shine and shine and shine.

He learned to become very careful about his emotions.

***  
The day he was shot was a day with weather he did not control.

It was bright.

So bright.

Too bright.

When he fell, he knew he was going to die. 

The sky stayed clear.

Cloudless.

Serene.

John closed his eyes.

***  
He woke up in a tent, screaming.

His whole left side was on fire.

“Someone please help me! Put it out!” he begged, to no avail.

They shushed him, pushed a needle into his veins, muttering calm calm quiet as the thick fog of painkillers glazed over John’s mind.

***  
It rained a lot in London.

There was no escape from the pain and the sense of failure and the stares and the shame.

But John soldiered on.

Just like always.

***  
He met Sherlock Holmes and the sun shone for a week.

The sky was a piercing blue, the color of water in a desert oasis.

No clouds dared to cross the sky.

The news people were shocked.

It hadn’t been this warm out of season for decades.

***  
With Sherlock, the weather leveled out.

John controlled himself and let the world do as it pleased with the forecast.

It was of no importance to him.

He had Sherlock.

His own personal lightning storm.

***  
Often, John wondered why whatever God there was had chosen him to have his power.

Why not Sherlock, extraordinary already?

It would not seem out of place if Sherlock could control the world and force it to bend to his unstoppable will.

But it was only John.

Ordinary, simple, John.

A nobody.

***  
Then Sherlock jumped. 

Down down down down crack.

John knew that sound.

He knew the crunch of bone on concrete, knew the sickening pool of dark dark liquid spilling from Sherlock’s cracked skull was not survivable.

He denied it.

With his whole body he denied it.

No.

But the evidence, as Sherlock would say, was irrefutable. 

It started to rain.

Drip, Drip, Drip.

And John was washed away.

***  
It didn’t even rain, after that day.

The air was still, heavy.

The charge remained for weeks, sticky and slow and catching.

Nothing happened.

It rained once, as John sat inside his room, crying crying crying screaming begging please please no.

But he got up.

He brushed himself off.

He soldiered on.

Just like always.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I'm a loser


End file.
